


Flagstaff

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-15
Updated: 2006-06-14
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:45:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8697067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Ninth in the Things My Brother Taught Me series. Warnings: Wincest, strong language, RED FLAG LEVEL WARNING underage sex (seriously, if this is your squick, just pass this story by all together), some really spicy tacos and more of "those talks" from dad.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Flagstaff  
Author: Hellskitten  
Email: crissyd33@yahoo.com   
Fandom: Supernatural  
Pairing: S/D  
Rating: NC-17   
Warnings: Wincest, strong language, **RED FLAG LEVEL WARNING** underage sex (seriously, if this is your squick, just pass this story by all together), some really spicy tacos and more of “those talks” from dad.   
Spoilers: Some but this is mostly AU. This is the next section of my series and picks up right after the story entitled “Guardian”. All can be found at my LJ in Memories in reading order.   
Disclaimer: The boys and all their angst-ridden hotness belong to the WB—for now.  
Soundtrack: “Angel” by Massive Attack.  
Note: The structure of this story is slightly experimental. Rather than just doing another few “scenes” for my longer work, I wanted this story to feel more like an “episode”. Therefore, it’s long and moves in a different, slower way than a story with three scenes would. The next few sections of my series will “feel” like this one, just so ya’ll know what’s coming.  
  
***  
  
In his dream, Sam was lying naked in the sun.  
  
Soft white sand supported his body and he sifted through it with his fingers, feeling tiny bits of sea shells and pebbles beneath the surface. Waves met the shore somewhere near him, but his eyes were closed so he couldn’t see the ocean. The scent of it was strong in the air—salt, green, life and water. Sam took a deep breath and licked his lips, tasting the salt there, as well. The flavor reminded him of the silky skin on Dean’s belly and he remembered so clearly the last time he’d tasted it.   
  
In his dream, Sam was instantly aroused. His skin tingled and his cock awakened under the sunlight. He reached for it with his other hand, lifting it and stroking it to its full swollen length with his fingers. He moaned because it felt so good and he rubbed a little harder. His own hand felt silky like that coveted belly skin that he could still taste on his tongue. He could feel the golden hairs under Dean’s navel tickling his nose. Sam’s breathing became shallow and his mouth got wet. Rubbing and rubbing, the pleasure gathered in his loins. He felt the moisture and heat of his cock and then the orgasm exploded inside him, outside him, making him struggle for breath in the sea-salty air.   
  
And then he was being cradled in strong arms he could feel but not see, held gently, caressed, his face softly kissed by hot lips that felt like satin left in that burning sun.   
  
Sam rose to consciousness inside a kiss that seemed to wash over his entire body. Dean was holding him tight, petting him everywhere, greedily devouring his tongue and lips. Sam moaned into the kiss and held his brother back, arms wrapping, hands stroking, thighs pressing close. Lazily they tasted each other’s warm morning mouths, tongues flickering against one another in that wet space. Sam could feel the last shimmers of his orgasm and knew he’d hosed his brother down pretty good, but he didn’t care. Dean didn’t care, either. In fact, Dean probably enjoyed it.   
  
Finally stopping for air, the boys relaxed in a tangle of sleep-warm limbs. Sam traced the line of golden hairs down his brother’s taut belly until his fingers found the sticky wetness, still heated from the close press of their bodies. He touched it, played in it, gathered some of the seed onto the pads of his fingers and brought them up to Dean’s voluptuous mouth. His fingers were welcomed instantly, licked, sucked, cleaned, tickled by Dean’s tongue. In the quiet motel room, cozy under three layers of blankets, John Winchester’s sons smiled at each other.  
  
“’Morning,” Dean purred, still licking Sam’s fingers. “That must have been some dream, man. Do you remember it?”  
  
Sam shook his head, the details of his sweet dream fading fast. “Not really . . . something about a beach. I just remember coming really hard.”  
  
“You were on a beach and there was nothing evil chasing you along the shore?”  
  
He breathed a laugh. “No, for once.”  
  
“Amazing,” Dean said grinning. “The prophet of doom finally had a good dream.”  
  
“It _is_ amazing. Maybe I’m relaxed or something equally foreign.” Sam watched his brother’s lips cup and slide over his fingertips and a little tickle of arousal warmed his insides. It must have shown on his face because Dean grinned with his eyes.  
  
“I made you come at least six times last night, dude,” he said, shifting and stretching his arms over his head. “What’s with the mad horny?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Sam said chuckling. He rolled onto his back and stretched his legs, working out the kinks in his muscles from his long, uninterrupted sleep. Glancing at the window, he tried to guess what time it was by the color of the light filtering through the cheap curtains. As he was doing this, Dean was reaching for his watch on the night table.  
  
“Damn,” his older brother said. “It’s 2:30. We almost slept all day.”  
  
“Well see, that’s must be it,” Sam said.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You made me come plenty for yesterday but we’re already behind schedule today.” He smirked playfully and Dean gave him a wink.   
  
“Man, I’m starving.” Dean stretched his neck then sat up, slipping his watch onto his wrist. “Get dressed, let’s go eat.” He threw the covers back and stood up, taking one more long, deep stretch before heading for his bag.   
  
Sam watched his brother move, noting the sexy cut of the muscles in his back and legs. Dean was almost perfectly built. He was the perfect height, the perfect weight and perfectly proportioned. Not too muscular, not to lean. Everything in its most alluring place. Sam frowned a little, then sat up in bed.  
  
“How come you got to be so beautiful?” he said.  
  
Dean snorted as he dug in his bag for some clean clothes. “We’re gonna have this conversation again?”  
  
“Well, dude,” Sam said matter-of-factly. “It’s disgusting.”  
  
Finding a clean t-shirt, Dean tugged it over his head and went back into his bag for some shorts. “Well, you got that big brain, Sammy. And there isn’t one god-damned thing that isn’t beautiful on you, either. If you wanna talk disgusting, let’s talk about you, kiddo.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I might have a big brain but I can’t put together sophisticated electronic equipment out of crap layin’ around in my car—now, can I?” He got out of bed and headed for the bathroom, but he saw Dean flip him a good-natured middle finger.  
  
After relieving himself, Sam brushed his teeth, slightly dismayed by his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His hair was a disheveled wreck, sticking up every which way. He ran his fingers through it but it was hopelessly bent and a little oily from sleeping on it for almost fifteen hours straight. Dean came into the small room and went to the toilet, but he couldn’t resist taking a quick shot at his little brother.  
  
“You look like you slept in a dumpster.”  
  
“Tough. I don’t wanna take a shower.” He spat into the sink, then rinsed his mouth, running some water through his hair with his fingers.  
  
“I don’t either,” Dean said and they looked at each other. “I’m kinda diggin’ the way I smell right now.” He punctuated his remark with a quick wink.  
  
After he dried his face with a towel, Sam turned around and leaned against the sink, brazenly watching his brother empty his bladder. He licked his lips and took in a deep breath, tasting the acrid salty scent in his mouth. It reminded him of sea water for some reason and that made his cock tingle. Dean eyed him, shaking his head.  
  
“Look at you. Is this a new kink, Sammy.”  
  
“Dude, it’s probably my oldest one. I used to listen at the bathroom door when you were in there and just try to imagine what everything looked like. You standing there holding your dick, the way your fingers would look, how you would shake off the last drops. It was very effective.” He grinned. “Gave me wood every time.”  
  
Dean was genuinely amused. “When was this?”  
  
“God, I was probably ten or eleven,” Sam said. “Right around when I first discovered . . .” He lifted his eyebrows, offering his brother a cue.  
  
Dean picked it right up and they spoke together, imitating their father’s most fatherly tone.  
  
“ _The Joys of Masturbation_.”  
  
They laughed and Dean finished his business. He leaned into Sam’s naked hip as he washed his hands in the sink.   
  
“I was totally fascinated with you,” Sam said, returning the lean, challenging, almost shoving.  
  
“I remember.” Dean pushed his weight back, accepting the challenge, and reached for the same towel Sam had used. He dried his hands, still pushing and then he quickly checked his reflection. “Damn,” he said. “You’re right, I’m fuckin’ _gorgeous_.” He bore down and shoved just hard enough to win and pushed his brother off the sink.   
  
Sam stumbled a little, laughed then went out to find himself some clean clothes. The contents of his duffle looked like the fallout of a fabric bomb and he had no choice but to upend it and dump everything out on the bed. Not everything was dirty, it was all just hurriedly packed and wrinkled. He sifted through the his underwear and found a clean pair, then he grabbed some jeans and a soft, worn sweatshirt with the Stanford logo on it.  
  
Dean wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist as he passed behind him, parking his chin on his brother’s shoulder. “Maybe we should get some provisions,” he said. “So we don’t have to go out so much until we hear from Dad.”  
  
Sam nodded. “Good idea. That way I can tie you to the bed and not have to worry about going out for food.”   
  
Dean let go so Sam could get dressed and he sat down on the bed amid his brother’s scattered clothing. “You’re interested in bondage games? Since when?”  
  
Sam shook his head. “No, I’m not really. I was just kidding. It wouldn’t be any fun if you couldn’t use your hands. But, you would look painfully hot all strapped down and naked.”   
  
“I agree,” Dean smirked. Something in the fray on the bed caught his eyes and he reached for it, plucking out a small plastic bottle with an orange cap. Dean squinted at the label then his eyebrows shot up.  
  
“KY Warming Gel?” he teased.  
  
Sam nodded once but had nothing more to offer. The product seemed self explanatory. He pulled on his shorts and jeans then tugged the sweatshirt over his head, once again running his fingers through his messy hair. Dean was still looking at him.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Does this stuff work?” his brother said, twisting off the orange cap.  
  
“Gets you slippery,” Sam said.   
  
“Since when do you have trouble getting slippery, Sammy?”  
  
He grinned. “I don’t. But that stuff has a little something _extra_.”  
  
Dean touched his finger to the rim of the small bottle and poured out a drop of the clear liquid. He frowned at it curiously. “It doesn’t feel warm.”  
  
“It needs friction. Go like this.” Sam rubbed his fingertips against the pad of his thumb and Dean followed suit. After a moment, the older Winchester grinned.  
  
“Oooh. I bet that’s feels veerrry nice.”  
  
“It does. I’ll lube you up when we get back. Come on, I’m hungry.” He sat down momentarily to get his shoes on and then Sam headed for the door. He grabbed the knob, opened the door and turned around just in time to see Dean touch his oily fingers to his bottom lip. “It probably doesn’t taste very good,” Sam warned.  
  
Dean pursed his lips together, then touched his fingers to them again, putting a bit more of the warming gel on them. He stood and walked over to Sam in the doorway, leaning in close for a kiss.  
  
“It needs friction,” Dean purred. “Smooch me?”   
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “Tch. Like you need to ask.” He pressed his lips to Dean’s nice and firm, kissing and pulling back, sliding back and forth a little and nipping just a bit. The gel had a flat plastic taste but it did indeed work its magic on their sensitive lips.   
  
“Mmm,” Dean moaned into the kiss. “We are so playing with this when we get back.”  
  
Wiggling his eyebrows, Sam turned toward the door and they stepped outside into the warm afternoon.  
  
The sun was too bright after being in their room for so many hours. Both boys reached for their sunglasses as they made their way to the sidewalk. Sam looked down the street toward the corner.   
  
“We passed a Mexican restaurant down there, didn’t we?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said. “I think it was called Juanito’s or something.”  
  
“You don’t miss much, do you?”  
  
Dean’s eyebrows twitched. “Occupational hazard. It’s close, let’s walk.” He nodded in the direction of the corner and the boys started walking.  
  
Sam glanced around them at the neighborhood, taking cautious note of the alleys and side streets. “Do you think we’re okay out in the open like this?”  
  
“Like my car is so inconspicuous,” Dean said. “Dude, if the guardian wants us, it’ll find us no matter.”  
  
“I just wish we knew what it wanted.”  
  
“Yeah.” Dean perched his shades on his lightly freckled nose. “Do you remember that Mexican place in Flagstaff?”  
  
“Oh, hell yeah,” Sam smiled. “Their food was awesome. We ate there like four times a week.”  
  
“You and Dad loved those fire breathin’ tacos.”  
  
Chuckling, Sam nudged his brother’s arm. “Used to piss you off so bad that I could eat those and you couldn’t.”  
  
Dean shook his head. “There you were, freakin’ ten years old, and you’d down those hot chilies like they were candy.”  
  
“It’s just a taste bud thing,” Sam said. “Some people like hot stuff, some people don’t. Doesn’t make you a wimp or anything.” He grinned sidelong at his brother who cocked an eyebrow back. “Okay, maybe it does.”  
  
“Shut up.” Dean shoved his shoulder and Sam laughed.  
  
His chest felt warm from the memory of that time in the Winchester family history. It had been a rare, quiet few months they’d spent in Arizona after their father succeeded with a local exorcism. The procedure had taken a lot out of him and he wanted some down time, so John leased a furnished apartment and moved himself and his boys in. Sam remembered that being the first time in his life they were a real, normal family.   
  
“I liked Flagstaff,” he said softly as they kept walking.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean replied. “Me, too.”  
  
  
***  
  
The Winchesters had become regular patrons of Rosa’s Taco Shack both because the food was wonderful and because it was cheap. One cold afternoon on their way home from the local sporting goods store, they stopped by Rosa’s and got take-out. As they unpacked the overstuffed cardboard box on the kitchen table, Sammy got hold of a small container of John’s favorite hot sauce.  
  
He popped the tiny plastic lid and stuck his nose into the cup, but instantly he winced and shook his head. “Ew! How come you like this stuff, Daddy? Smells gross!”  
  
John reached into the box and found one of the beef tacos they’d ordered. He unwrapped it and reached for the hot sauce Sammy was holding. “Here,” he said, pouring a small drop on one end of the taco. “Try it.” He rolled the tortilla up and held it out for his son to bite.   
  
“It’s gonna burn your mouth, Sammy,” Dean said protectively from across the table.  
  
John winked at his oldest. “You never know. Let him try it.”  
  
Sammy took a big bite of the soft taco and stood next to his dad’s chair chewing with great concentration. John reached for one of the sodas on the table and held it at the ready just in case. He and Dean both watched Sammy until he swallowed what was in his mouth.  
  
“It tastes kinda . . . sweet,” ten-year-old Sam Winchester declared. “I mean, it burns a little, but it’s not that bad. I like it.”  
  
Dean had frowned in a way that made Sam flinch. He didn’t understand why his brother would be bothered by him liking his father’s hot sauce.   
  
“You’re saying that doesn’t hurt?” Dean demanded.  
  
“A little but it’s not that bad,” Sam repeated, then he looked their father. “Can I try some more?”  
  
“Of course.” John opened the taco in his hand and poured more of the hot sauce on top of it, then he set it on the table in front of Sammy’s chair. “Go for it.”   
  
Sammy climbed into the chair and tucked into the taco with gusto. He remembered each bite getting hotter and hotter in his mouth but it still never got to the point of real discomfort. The flavor was amazing, bright and sharp and sweet and he loved it. He also loved that quick glint of admiration in his father’s eyes. It made Sammy feel all puffed up with pride.  
  
Later that night, they’d all been sitting in the living room watching some sitcom on their rented television. Dean was on the long couch sitting Indian-style with one of his beloved spy novels in his lap and Sammy was on the floor in front of him, his back reclined against the couch. John scrutinized the local newspaper in a chair beside them.  
  
Sammy put his head back on the cushion and it landed right in the V of Dean’s folded legs. He looked at his big brother upside down. It took a minute but Dean finally returned his inquisitive stare.  
  
“Are you mad at me?” Sammy said in a voice just soft enough for his brother to hear.  
  
Dean’s brow crinkled. “No. Why?”  
  
“I dunno. You’re bein’ all quiet.”  
  
“I’m reading.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
They stared at each other for a long time and then finally Dean’s fingers slipped into Sammy’s hair, all gentleness and soothing. Sammy sighed and couldn’t keep his eyes from closing, even though he didn’t want them to. He didn’t want Dean to know how much he loved it when he touched Sammy’s hair. Sure, he’d been doing it forever, but lately . . . it started to feel different. Lately, when Dean pet him like a puppy, his whole body went limp from the force of a pleasure like none he’d ever known. It made him feel dizzy and hot and a little like he had to pee. It made him feel like he was melting.  
  
He forced his eyes open and Dean was looking at him, a tiny smile pulling his perfect lips. Those lips formed silent words and Sammy read them. _Like that?_ He smiled and nodded, feeling Dean’s warm hand cupping his head against the cushion, slow fingers sifting through his hair, tingling, tingling everywhere. Those lips formed more words and Sammy felt them in his chest like a vibration. _Me, too_.   
  
They looked at each other floating on the current of that secret for what seemed like ages. The sweet suspension was suddenly broken by their father’s voice.  
  
“Have you got a headache, Sammy?”  
  
His heart started beating wildly at his dad’s unexpectedly harsh tone and he was also confused by the question. “No,” he said, looking at John with slightly narrowed eyes.  
  
John gave Dean a stern stare. “Then why are you doing that?”  
  
Dean blinked, frowned. “I don’t know. Feels good. His hair’s really soft.”  
  
John took a deep breath and for a long intense moment, he held his oldest son’s gaze. And then he simply shook his head one time.  
  
Dean withdrew his hand obediently then looked down at his book, but that frown persisted.   
  
Sammy’s eyes questioned his father, but John was once again engrossed in his newspaper. Sighing with the disappointment of losing that delicious sensation, Sammy turned his attention back to the television. However, his awareness of Dean’s proximity remained acute as did his awareness that something was going on he didn’t quite get. He hated that. What was so bad about Dean playing with his hair—especially when it felt so good?  
  
To make matters worse, right before they all went to bed that night, John called Dean into his room for a private conversation. Sam remembered being so angry about the secrecy that he’d actually crept up to the door and listened through it—something he’d never been bold enough to do before. The building was old and the walls and doors thin as cardboard. He’d heard the entire conversation as though he were in the room with them.   
  
“Kiddo, I’m sorry about earlier. When I told you to stop touching your brother’s hair.”  
  
Silence from Dean.  
  
“It’s just that . . . you boys are getting older and you need to be careful . . .” Their father had sighed, seeming unable to say what he meant. He started again after a halting pause. “You two are very close and I probably should have stopped you from bunking together a few years ago, but I didn’t. So here we are. I just don’t want Sammy to . . . respond to your affection inappropriately.”  
  
Another silence from Dean and then, “what do you mean?”  
  
An exasperated sigh from Dad. “Dean, you’re fourteen years old. You know exactly what I mean. You boys are touching each other constantly—you always have. I can’t keep him out of your bed at night. It concerns me.”  
  
“We’re just sleeping.”  
  
“I know you are, son. And I hope that’s always the case. I don’t want to take that comfort away from either of you, not to mention the fact that you both get a good night’s rest that way. It’s just that . . . now . . . you need to be more aware of . . . his reactions to all the touching you guys do. Just be careful that it doesn’t go somewhere . . . wrong. He’ll follow your lead like always. So be a good big brother, okay?”  
  
“I am,” Dean defended.  
  
“I know, I know.” Their father’s tone softened considerably and Sammy could picture him holding onto Dean’s shoulders as he spoke. “Listen, you know what I’m trying to say. Sammy is very sensual and responsive. And you boys are both . . .” Another long halting hesitation and then John continued in a slightly squeezed voice. “You’re both masturbating now and I need you to make sure that private stuff stays private.”  
  
“Dad,” Dean had said in a hushed, shocked voice.  
  
John laughed a little. “Hey, the walls are damned thin here. Sammy’s right next to me and you’re just down the hall. Believe me, I don’t miss much of the panting and squeaking bed springs.”  
  
Dean groaned and it had a muffled sound like he might have his hands over his mouth.   
  
“Come on, now,” John said affectionately. “Boys gotta do what boys gotta do, it’s no big deal. I’m just saying . . . don’t do that together. Keep that to yourselves in your own rooms. Okay?”  
  
After one more stretch of silence, Dean finally said okay. Sammy took that as his cue to silently scurry around the corner into his room and act like he’d been in bed that whole time. He jumped in, pulled the covers over him and turned on his side away from the door. From there, he listened as his brother and dad said good night and Dean went off to his room, closing his door with a soft snick. A moment later, Sammy’s father was sitting on his bed.  
  
“Hey, kiddo,” he said quietly. “You asleep?” That large, warm hand rested gently on the back of his head.   
  
Sammy turned to him, making his eyes half-mast as though he’d been right on the edge of slumber. “Uh uh.”  
  
“Just wanted to say good night,” John said, bending over to put a kiss on his youngest son’s forehead. He smelled like toothpaste and sunshine.  
  
“Good night, Daddy.” Sammy gave a sleepy smile then he took a deep breath. “Are you mad at Dean?”  
  
“Not at all,” John said gently. “Everything’s fine, Sammy. Now go to sleep.”  
  
“Okay.” Sam had turned over on his side again but he still wasn’t entirely convinced everything was fine.  
  
John crossed the room and flipped the light switch, but he left the door open just a crack. This was at Sammy’s request—an easier escape route in case the closet monster got ornery. When he’d mentioned that particular beastie to his dad the first time, John had given him that big heavy gun he called a ‘forty-five’. He taught Sammy how to use the imposing weapon and he’d even been pretty good at shooting it. Although he kept that gun under his pillow, he figured he’d be too frightened to use it in the event the closet monster made a move. Getting the heck out of the room was a much better plan.  
  
He’d waited with his eyes open in the dark for almost half an hour until the rooms on either side of him were quiet. Dean was either asleep or reading and Dad was probably playing possum. Sam knew their father laid awake most nights keeping an eye on them and on the apartment. He trusted nothing, least of all the darkness. But eventually he would fall asleep, evidenced by his steady, even snoring. When he heard that sound, Sammy would slip out into the silent hallway and down to Dean’s bedroom where the boys would tangle around each other and sleep like the dead.  
  
While he waited for the snoring, Sammy’s imagination began to travel. He thought of all sorts of things from the terrors in his father’s hunting stories to some silly commercial that made him laugh on television that night. But mostly he thought of Dean. Not that he hadn’t always done that. But lately when he thought of his big brother, Sammy thought about how he looked and how he smelled and how he moved. The sound of his voice and the little scratch in his laugh, his pretty smile. The way the hairs on his forearms were so blond, they looked like thread made of gold. One morning when Sammy woke up before him, he’d laid there pressed against Dean’s warm, sleeping body and counted the freckles on his nose. Seventeen to be exact.   
  
He thought about lying in bed with Dean, pressed into his taller, stronger body under the blankets. He thought about the way Dean’s arms curled around him and how his fingers found the skin on his little brother’s back under his nightshirt. He thought about the way Dean’s jaw fit right into Sammy’s cheekbone when they slept face to face. How every breath he took when they slept together was filled with his brother’s heat and softness. Sammy loved the way Dean’s blond hair felt at the back of his neck. His fingers would curl and play in those hairs all night long sometimes.   
  
The more Sammy thought, the more his body would tingle. He’d start to feel anxious and irritable and his penis would itch. He’d wiggle on his bed, shifting and squirming until he found what he needed—something soft but firm to rub that stiff, hot thing against. Usually the second pillow on his bed served this purpose, but sometimes he just rubbed against the mattress. He sucked his thumb while he did this because having something in his mouth made everything feel so much better. He’d rub and rub until his body felt like it was breaking apart with pleasure—all of which stemmed from that throbbing, leaking organ between his legs that seemed to have suddenly come alive in the last few months.  
  
Sammy had never heard that word his father used in the conversation he had with Dean, but he put together what it meant. ‘Masturbating’ meant playing with yourself and that’s what he was doing when he rubbed against the bed. That’s what Dean was doing when Sammy heard him breathing hard in the next room. The way their dad made it sound was that this was something boys _had_ to do, like they had no control over it. Sometimes Sammy felt exactly like that. Sometimes the pleasure of this act was so overwhelming that he couldn’t think of anything else but the next time he could feel it. And then sometimes, he didn’t think of it at all for days.   
  
He wondered if it was the same for Dean. He also wondered if Dean did it the same way he did. Sammy was sure there were other ways to feel this pleasure, to create this incredible, shattering sensation. Being a curious and smart kid, he’d given this topic a lot of thought. There were mysteries about it that he needed to unravel.   
  
For example, he was perplexed by all the fluid. There had to be a purpose for it beyond making a big sticky mess in the sheets. Sure, he knew all about the birds and the bees and the sperm and the egg and everything, but that still didn’t answer his questions about the liquids that squirted out of him _before_ that blissful release. He knew its function had something to do with how slippery it was, but he hadn’t got to the bottom of that yet.   
  
And for whatever reason, he had never felt comfortable asking Dean about it—even though he knew his brother probably had all that stuff figured out.  
  
Instead, they’d just modified their routine to accommodate this new development. Rather than falling into bed together at the beginning of the night, they would retreat to their separate rooms to do what “boys gotta do” in private. This had come about naturally with no discussion. But always, much later in the night, Sammy would find himself nearly sleepwalking into Dean’s room, drawn like a magnet to his brother’s bed. He’d crawl under the warm blankets and Dean would open to him, cuddle him close and never wake up. They slept so deeply together that John had to shake them awake every morning.  
  
Even though the boys had never discussed this new sexual ingredient, the topic was a silent third party between them. Over the last few weeks, Sammy had woken in Dean’s arms just before dawn and found both their bellies wet and sticky. He hadn’t said anything and neither had Dean, even though the moisture couldn’t be denied. And the scent of it . . . so sweet and ripe, like fresh peach juice. Those times when Sammy woke up, he’d been hot and out of breath but he hadn’t known why. Dean had been hot, too, but sleeping soundly.   
  
That night very late, he found himself once again shuffling down the dark hallway, a moth to the flame of Dean’s bed. He slid silently under the blankets, they tangled, nuzzled, matched breath and then conked out, and Sammy still didn’t get any of his answers. At least not yet.  
  
  
***  
  
Juanito’s Mexican Restaurant turned out to be an excellent choice. It was long after the lunch rush so the place was almost empty, save for a few patrons lingering over corn chips and drinks. Sam and Dean sat at a table near the bar where Dean had immediately gravitated. He wanted to be near the tequila. The bar was small, but the shelves behind it held every imaginable brand of that liquor on earth. As soon as they were seated, he promptly ordered a double Patron Silver.   
  
Sam had opted for a Corona Light and he smirked at his brother while he watched him savor a mouthful of the very expensive alcohol. His expression was decidedly pornographic.  
  
“You need a towel, man?”   
  
Dean swallowed and let out a reverent sigh. “Damn . . . I might. You gotta try this.” He slid the glass across and Sam took it, raising it to his nose for an investigative sniff.   
  
A small sip was enough to explain why Dean liked it so much. The tequila was smooth as velvet and light as water. “Yum,” he said, handing the glass back. “But we can’t really afford that.”  
  
“Sure we can,” Dean said. “We’re on vacation.”  
  
“That doesn’t mean we have extra funds.”  
  
“Sammy, I’ve got plenty of money to take care of both of us. Whatever you’ve got is extra. Just relax.”  
  
Sam frowned at that information and for a second, he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask. But of course, he couldn’t resist. “What the hell do you mean? How do you have plenty of money? Have you taken up bank robbing?”  
  
Dean stared at him for a moment but said nothing. Then he sipped his Patron again, sighing as the elixir slid down his throat.   
  
“Dude,” Sam persisted.  
  
“Remember when you said there were some things you needed to keep for yourself? Like, stuff about Jess?”  
  
Sam didn’t like this turn in the conversation. It meant Dean was shutting down and that he’d get nowhere with any more questions. “Yeah,” he said reluctantly.  
  
“Well, that goes for me, too. Just know that you and I are okay on funds. So, why don’t you get a shot? Live a little.”  
  
Leaning forward, Sam licked his lips, lowered his chin, then looked up at his brother through his floppy chestnut bangs. He didn’t usually stoop to manipulation, but Dean’s secrecy was making him edgy. He threw in a slow blink for good measure and then smiled his cutest come hither smile.   
  
“Park the puppy dog, dude,” Dean said. “It’s not gonna work with this.”  
  
“Aw, come on,” Sam teased. “That always works.”  
  
Dean smiled as he absently ran his fingertip around the rim of his glass. “It _usually_ works, don’t be all stuck up. But I’m feeling like being mysterious today.”  
  
Sam sighed. “Whatever.” He took a drink of his beer, glancing out the window at the cars parked on the street in front of the restaurant. SUVs, sedans, compacts, one beautiful gun metal gray Audi TT, but no Porsches of any color in sight.   
  
“Guardians don’t like crowds, Sammy,” Dean said quietly. “I think we’re good here. Lots of people around, lots of activity.”  
  
“It could still be watching us.”  
  
“I have no doubt it is, in some way. Maybe it’s got a crystal ball or something so it can see us and Dad at the same time. Who knows.”  
  
“Now that’s comforting,” Sam muttered. He tipped his beer against his lips and drained the remaining half of it in three giant swallows, then he pushed the empty to the edge of the table.  
  
Dean’s brow lifted in admiration. “More higher learning from Stanford?”  
  
“As a matter of fact,” Sam affirmed. He caught their waiter’s eyes and nodded to the empty, holding up his index finger. The waiter nodded and went to the bar, returning momentarily with another Corona Light.  
  
“Your order will be right along,” he said and the boys thanked him.  
  
Sam sipped then set the cold bottle down, swirling the bubbling brew in his mouth before swallowing it. He tried not to think about how much it bothered him that Dean was withholding something and the more he thought about it, the crankier he got. And then he remembered something that had been rattling around in his head for days.  
  
“Hey,” he said and Dean nodded in response. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”  
  
“Shoot.”  
  
“You remember that day you walked in on me beating off?”  
  
“You gotta more specific, Sammy,” Dean joked. “I’ve walked in on you beating off about a thousand times.”  
  
Sam chuckled and his cheeks heated up. “All right, I mean most recently.”  
  
Dean swirled his tequila in the glass, then sipped it. Had Sam not been looking right at him that second, he wouldn’t have seen the brief cloud that crossed Dean’s beautiful face. It was gone just as quickly as it appeared.  
  
“Of course I remember.”  
  
Sam continued. “Later on, you went down on me and I asked if you remembered the first time you did that.”  
  
That cloud flashed once more over Dean’s green eyes, but it vanished just like before. “Yeah,” he said then he finished his drink watching Sam’s face warily over the back of the glass.  
  
Slightly unnerved by Dean’s stifled apprehension, Sam forged on. “You said _you_ remembered but I didn’t.”  
  
Dean set his empty glass down on the table with a solid clunk. “That’s right. I remember, you don’t.”  
  
“Dude, that’s crap. I remember it like it happened an hour ago. Every freakin’ detail.”  
  
Dean shook his head, lowering his voice to take it from the earshot of the other patrons. “I’m sorry, Sammy. No, you don’t. You couldn’t remember the first time I sucked you off because . . .”  
  
Sam leaned in, whispering as well. “Because why?”  
  
Dean took a deep breath and let it out in a huff. “Because you were asleep.”  
  
Sam blinked, truly surprised. For an instant he thought his brother might be pulling his leg, but then he assessed the expression on Dean’s face. It was intense and exposed, a little too uncertain for Sam’s liking. He wasn’t used to Dean being vulnerable emotionally so he had no skills for handling it.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Sam said, “I was?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
The youngest Winchester tried a smile. “You’re saying that my incredibly hot brother was sucking my dick before I remember him doing it—and I slept through it like a dork?”  
  
Dean lowered his eyes but the hint of a smile on his lips told Sam he was lightening up.   
  
“It didn’t last very long, dude. Like six seconds. You’re better off with the memory you’ve got.”  
  
“Okay,” Sam said, shifting in his seat. “That may be, but I still wanna know.” He lowered his voice even more. “How old was I, Dean?”  
  
Dean swallowed, picking at the edge of the paper napkin under his silverware. “It was in Flagstaff, Sammy,” he said in a husky whisper. “You were ten.”  
  
Sam’s eyes widened but he couldn’t keep himself from smiling. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me.”  
  
“I wish I was,” Dean said and it was clear that he meant it.   
  
The waiter came out of the kitchen carrying a tray and a jack and he stopped by their table to serve them. Two large white ceramic plates loaded with steaming beans, rice and wet burritos were placed in front of them along with another round of drinks—both the beer and the expensive tequila.  
  
“Oh, we didn’t order another round, yet,” Sam said.  
  
The waiter smiled, folding his jack up and tucking the tray under his arm. “Compliments of the gentleman in the corner.” He nodded in the direction of the door and the boys turned.  
 


	2. Chapter 2

There was a table with an empty shot glass and a small stack of cash sitting on it, but no customer in the chair.  
  
“Oh,” the waiter said. “I guess he left.”  
  
Dean slid his chair back and trotted out the door to the sidewalk where he looked in every direction twice. Sam’s heart was pounding but he tried to seem calm when he spoke to the waiter again.   
  
“Can you tell me what the man looked like?”   
  
The waiter frowned and shook his head. “I don’t really remember. I only talked to him for a minute when he ordered the drinks. I think he had kinda dirty blond hair but . . . that’s all. Sorry.”  
  
Sam smiled weakly. “That’s cool. Thanks.”  
  
The waiter nodded and headed back to the kitchen.   
  
Sam watched Dean through the window but he clearly wasn’t having any luck. After another few seconds of scanning the street, he came back into the restaurant, stopping at that table by the door to squint at the mysterious patron’s bill. He left it and the cash where they were and returned to their table.  
  
“Nothing?” Sam said.  
  
“Nada.” Dean sat down, frowning hard. “His check says he ordered a decaf coffee and a Bud Light, plus our drinks. Paid in cash and left a big fat tip.”  
  
That combination tickled Sam’s memory but he couldn’t recall why just yet. “Weird,” he said. “The waiter said the guy had dirty blond hair but that’s all he remembered. He was only in here for a few minutes.”  
  
“You’re facing that way, you didn’t see him?” Dean said.  
  
“Dude, you were telling me something _very_ interesting, remember? All my attention was on you.”   
  
Sighing, Dean picked up his fork and stabbed his burrito. “Well, the guy’s gone now.” He cut off a huge bite and stuffed it in his mouth, scowling as he chewed. And then suddenly, he smiled. “Damn, that’s good. Eat.”  
  
Sam was starving and he didn’t have to be told twice. While he cut himself a healthy bite of his own burrito, he tried to remember why decaf and Bud Light struck a cord in him. He must have been frowning in concentration because Dean tapped his foot under the table.  
  
“What?” his older brother said.  
  
“I don’t know, it’s probably nothing.”  
  
“That’s not happening much lately. Tell me.”  
  
Sam sighed. “It’s just . . . something . . . did Dad ever drink those two things together? That combination is ringing a bell for me.”  
  
Incredulous, Dean said, “decaf coffee? Our father?”  
  
Sam shook his head, took another bite and talked around it. “I know, but . . . we know someone. Or I did. Or something.”  
  
“You’re right,” Dean said. “That probably is nothing.”   
  
The boys were quiet for a few minutes, thinking and eating. The waiter checked on them and then left them alone, casting a suspicious glance over his shoulder on his way back to the kitchen. Sam caught this and breathed a little laugh.  
  
“What’s funny?”’  
  
“The waiter,” he said. “He thinks we’re twitchy.”  
  
Dean chuckled and reached for his fresh drink. He swirled the tequila around in the clear glass, then he brought it to his lips, savoring a nice deep sip. “God, that’s good. Okay, maybe this guy was nothing more than some random dude who bought us a round of drinks and didn’t want to stick around so we could thank him. Maybe he didn’t want anyone to _know_ he bought us drinks. I mean, look where we are.”  
  
Sam glanced out the window just in time to see two young women with their hair in pony tails pass by pushing matching strollers. Across the street were two quaint looking shops—one a hardware store and the other a craft boutique. A big white dog sat dutifully outside the hardware store, his leash tied around a bus bench with an ad for John Deere tractors emblazoned across it.  
  
“Not exactly a hub of alternative lifestyles,” Dean finished.  
  
“Right,” Sam said doubtfully. “But, if he bought us drinks to show interest, why would he leave without seeing if it was reciprocated?”  
  
Dean shrugged. “That, I don’t know.” He took another bite and, just as Sam had, talked with his mouth full. “I don’t think it’s our guardian, though. The MO’s wrong.”  
  
Sam squinted but he agreed. If it had been the guardian, it would have made its presence known like it had the day before.   
  
“If the guy had blond hair, we know it wasn’t Dad,” Dean said. He reached for a corn ship and stuck it into his refried beans.   
  
“No,” Sam said. “Dad’s in California.”  
  
Dean froze in mid-chew. “And you know this how?”  
  
He shrugged, took another bite. “It’s just a feeling. I think he’s in Stanford, actually. At least in the north somewhere.”  
  
“Doing what?”  
  
Sam looked out the window but didn’t see what was out there. Instead, he tried to see their father’s face in hopes the image would trigger a psychic tether. He pictured John Winchester’s deep green eyes, his heavy brow, his mouth like Dean’s and his ever-haunted expression.   
  
“Can you see him?” Dean asked, his voice library quiet.  
  
Sam frowned and shook his head. “No. I’m just picturing him, but I’m not actually seeing him.” He looked down at his plate and poked his burrito with his fork. “I’ve tried that a bunch of times. Never works. It’s like he’s just out of my reach.”  
  
“Maybe he’s . . .” Dean began but trailed off. He looked down at his food as well, but didn’t touch it.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Well, maybe he’s . . . shutting you out on purpose?” He made the statement a question most likely to soften its implication. But Sam felt it anyway and it smarted.  
  
“I guess. Maybe. He doesn’t want us to find him and I probably could. If I was allowed.” He put his fork down, then pushed the plate away, his appetite suddenly gone. Reaching for his beer, Sam drank thoughtfully while Dean kept eating across the table.   
  
“It’s just a thought, Sammy,” Dean said. “I mean, I don’t _know_ anything about what Dad’s doing. Obviously.” A few more bites of rice and then Dean pushed his plate away, too. He took a deep breath, reached for his drink and offered his brother a grin. “Okay, I’m stuffed now. I need a nap.”  
  
“Dude, you just got done sleeping for almost a whole day.”  
  
“Maybe I’m trying to catch up on my rest.” He patted his belly and sighed contentedly. “Oh, yeah. I need to get naked and lay down.”  
  
Sam grinned, leaning forward on the table. He held his beer in his hand and ran his tongue around the tip of the bottle suggestively. “I thought we were gonna play with the slippery warm stuff.”  
  
“Oh, we will, Sammy,” Dean purred. “But you gotta let me digest first.”  
  
The boys traded lewd stares, playfully touching knees under the table. The waiter came out to the dining room again and went to the empty table by the door. Sam watched as he collected the check and the money the stranger left, then he grabbed the empty coffee cup and beer bottle and whisked everything back in to the kitchen.   
  
Sam frowned at the empty table. “Are we worried about this blond guy?”  
  
Dean thought about it, then shook his head. “Nah. I’m thinkin’ he was some horny dude makin’ a pass. He just got shy at the last minute.”  
  
Sam liked that explanation and not only because it was simplest, but because it felt right. It felt like the truth. “Yeah,” he said. “In that case, we over reacted a touch.”  
  
Dean smirked. “Can’t blame us.”  
  
“No.” Sam tipped his beer to his lips and emptied it, setting it on the edge of the table with their plates. “Okay, then. While we’re waiting for the food to settle, why don’t you finish your story.”  
  
“What story’s that?” Dean said, bringing his glass to his beautiful lips.   
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “The one you were telling me about . . .” He glanced at the other few patrons and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Flagstaff when I was ten.”  
  
“I wasn’t telling you that story, Sammy,” Dean said. “I just told you it happened. I was done.”  
  
“Well, I’m _not_ done. Tell me.”  
  
Dean’s knee nudged into his under the table. “I really think you’re better off with the memory you already have.”  
  
“I don’t care,” Sam said, but he was smiling impishly. “I want the real story with all the wet, gory details.”  
  
Sighing, Dean said, “Sammy . . . I don’t like thinking about it, okay?”  
  
“Why?” Sam was genuinely confused. Most of the time talking about their early sexual explorations sent Dean directly into launch mode.   
  
“Because,” he hedged, his brow creasing. “It creeps me out a little. You were so young. I took advantage of you.” He paused and stared into the last sip of his drink. “Makes me feel guilty.”  
  
Sam blinked in disbelief. “Dude, you’re kidding, right?”  
  
“Not in the least.”  
  
“Dean, did Dad ever tell you that he caught me stealing your underwear out of your hamper?”  
  
Dean’s turn to blink. “Uh, no. When was this?”  
  
“Same time frame,” Sam said. “Flagstaff, me ten, you almost fourteen. I used to sneak in your room when you weren’t in there and snatch a pair of your dirty shorts. Dad caught me doing it once. I turned around, he’s standing in the doorway with that _smirk_. You know the one.”  
  
Dean chuckled. “Oh, man. I certainly do. That look that says ‘kiddo, you are so goddamned busted, it’s comedy.’”  
  
“Yep. He’s lookin’ at me and he goes ‘Sammy, what do you want with your brother’s dirty shorts?’ I just blinked at him, totally freaked out. It’s not like I planned to get caught, so I had nothing prepared. I was screwed.”  
  
Dean laughed again and Sam went on.  
  
“I just stammered something about losing one of my t-shirts and told him I thought it might be in your hamper by mistake. And he’s all ‘uh huh.’” Sam shook his head. “It’s hilarious in hindsight, but I thought I was gonna have an aneurism at the moment.”  
  
Still grinning, Dean said, “all right, you’re confessing this early kink because?”  
  
“Because, dude. That was all around the same time. If you feel guilty because you _think_ you took advantage of my blushing innocence, you’re just being dumb. I was in no way innocent, Dean. I wanted you so bad, I could hardly function. ” He glanced at the other patrons again, then leaned in to whisper. “That french kissing ruse when I was twelve took me six weeks to set up. I went over every possible way you might try to say no and planned out a way to turn you around.”   
  
They looked at each other closely.  
  
“Your guilt is unwarranted, man,” Sam continued. “We were on the same page at the same time. You were just older and had more experience. You knew what was happening and I . . . didn’t quite. I mean, I knew I wanted to touch you in ways that I shouldn’t have wanted . . . but I didn’t know how to tell you. Not then, anyway.”  
  
Dean finished his drink and set the glass down decisively. “By the way, I liked the french kissing plan, evil genius.” he said. “It was pretty seamless.”  
  
Sam smiled. “Thanks. You gave me a run for my money. I was all the way into Plan C before I convinced you.”  
  
Shaking his head, Dean laughed. “How many back-ups were there?”  
  
“All the way to Plan K,” Sam admitted.  
  
“Evil genius,” Dean said again, giving Sam a wink.   
  
“Hell yeah. You were goin’ down, bro.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, once again nudging his brother’s knee under the table. “Come on, man. Just tell me. Blow by blow.”  
  
They grinned like kids over the double meaning and Dean scrubbed his fingers through his short hair. The waiter appeared again and came to take their plates. Dean asked him for the check.  
  
“I’ll tell you back at the hotel,” he said.  
  
Sam nodded, but he couldn’t help wondering if his brother would really give him the whole truth. Just because Dean Winchester was a lame liar didn’t mean he couldn’t succeed at hiding things. Even from his scarily intuitive brother.  
  
The afternoon was waning as they made their way back to the motel room that Dean referred to it as their ‘bat cave’. They stopped at a convenience store and loaded up on snacks and beverages in case they got hungry later. Dean got a six pack of Heineken and a bottle of Jim Beam and Sam wondered if his brother had to be drunk to tell this story. Fine. He could deal with that. Dean was actually a fun, happy drunk. Unlike their father—or even Sam himself—who tended toward bouts of dark brooding and violence when intoxicated.  
  
Before they locked themselves back in the room the boys walked around the entire building, checking for anything even remotely suspicious. They found no Porsches, no strange guys with dirty blond hair and nothing that appeared unusual. They met back at the door, reported that the perimeter was secure and then they went in. Dean put down fresh salt along the doors and windows while Sam sat on the bed and tried to organize his pile of clothes. He watched Dean moving around the room while he sorted through his laundry.  
  
“So?” he said and Dean looked at him.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Talk.” Sam tossed a gray t-shirt into the clean pile but he kept his eyes on Dean.   
  
His brother sighed, rolled his eyes, then went to the grocery bag for a beer. “Want one?”  
  
“Do I need one?”  
  
Dean didn’t reply but he grabbed a second bottle and brought it with him to the bed. Sam took it, opened it and sipped, wincing slightly from the strong brew. He’d never like Heineken much. It reminded him of bleach.   
  
Dean sat behind him with his back against the headboard. He hadn’t taken his jeans off yet, but they were unbuttoned all the way so his underwear showed. His soft cotton t-shirt rode up on his belly when he slouched onto the bed and Sam’s eye caught the edge of the hickey he’d given Dean the night before. Dean saw him looking at it and his fingers went to it.  
  
“Does that hurt?”   
  
“No.” He winked and took a deep sip of his beer. “If anyone asks, I’ll just say a little devil bit me.”  
  
“Wouldn’t be lyin’,” Sam grinned and tossed a t-shirt on the dirty pile. He figured he’d give Dean a head start, just to get him going. “Okay, so there we are in Flagstaff keeping Dad up nights with our respective panting and squeaking bed springs.”  
  
“Mm hm.”  
  
“I get caught stealing your underwear and you decide the time is right to suck your horny kid brother off in his sleep.”  
  
Dean chuckled and Sam could feel the vibration of it in the bed.   
  
“So, what was the trigger?” Sam asked.  
  
Staring at the green bottle in his hand, Dean’s expression smoothed with nostalgia. For a long time he didn’t say anything but Sam could tell he was working up to it. He could see his brother organizing the elements of the story in his mind, sorting through what he was and was not willing to share. Finally, he took a breath and another sip of his beer.  
  
“I liked Flagstaff,” Dean said.  
  
Sam smiled. “Yeah. Me, too.”  
  
  
***   
  
The first night it happened, Dean didn’t know what to do.  
  
He woke with a start thinking Sammy had wet the bed between them but instantly realized that wasn’t the case. His brother had never done that. Sammy was asleep beside him, pressed so close that Dean could feel his heartbeat. Fast as a jack rabbit. Sammy’s body was hot and a little sweaty and he was breathing in deep pants. Dean felt the sticky moisture against his own belly, soaked through his night shirt to the skin, and his heart started to gallop, as well.   
  
He sat up a little and peered at Sammy’s face, making doubly sure he was really asleep. Sammy’s eyes moved back and forth under his closed lids and his pink lips quivered slightly. Not just asleep but way down deep in dreamland. Dean placed his hand on Sammy’s hip and gently rolled him onto his back on the bed. His little brother sighed and shifted, but did not wake.   
  
At ten, Sam Winchester was already tall but still a few inches shorter than Dean. His legs were long and coltish and his hips ultra narrow, making it common for his pajama bottoms to slide down as he wriggled in his sleep. Many a time had the boys woken up together and Sammy would be half naked. This made them laugh because they had no idea how it happened. Then, it truly was accidental.  
  
That night those pj bottoms had slipped down his hips just enough to expose his private parts. With Sammy on his back, Dean had full view of his brother’s body and of the slick streaks on his belly that glimmered in the dim light from the window. He touched his own night shirt at the wet spot and brought his fingers to his nose. Salt, honey, fruit sweetness, musk. Dean’s mouth watered and he licked his lips and swallowed, then he sniffed his fingers again. Something in the scent was familiar and he inhaled deeply several times until it occurred to him. The familiar component was himself. Sammy’s come, although much more watery, smelled a little like Dean’s.  
  
Sammy made a tiny sound and squirmed on the bed, turning in his sleep toward Dean’s warmth. He wriggled close, back to the position he’d been in originally, and Dean laid still and let him. His heart was pounding and he was wide awake, but he couldn’t think of a good reason to wake his brother. It’s not like Sammy had done this on purpose. He’d had a wet dream, he was asleep. Saying anything about it would just embarrass him.   
  
Dean settled back against him in bed, shifting carefully until he found the good fit. He rested his cheek on Sammy’s soft hair and took some deep breaths. Finally, after a long time, he relaxed enough to sleep again.  
  
The next morning Sammy was up first and out of Dean’s bed. The older Winchester woke to the sound of his brother’s laughter in the kitchen down the hall and then he heard their father’s voice. John was telling a joke—a rather off color joke, in fact. Something about a goat walking backwards into a bar. Sammy squealed with high pitched laughter and John laughed, too. Dean loved the harmony of their combined laughter, high and low, but on the same key. The sound of it made him need to be out there with them.  
  
He got up and went to the bathroom, then shuffled out to the kitchen following the smell of pancakes cooking. Sammy was at the table, perched in a chair on his knees and leaning over a drawing he was making. He smiled brightly when Dean came into the room and Dean smiled back, ruffling his brother’s silky chestnut hair.  
  
John made them a huge breakfast that day and then they’d taken a drive into the woods for some target practice. Sammy was getting very good with that 45. Almost made Dean jealous. He had his own skills, of course, but Sammy’s tender age made his prowess just slightly annoying.   
  
On the way home, they’d stopped at Rosa’s Taco Shack and loaded up on that delicious Mexican food. All day long, there had been no talk of monsters or demons, no lessons on the mystical properties of common spices, no quizzes on the various forms of hauntings and no mention whatsoever of avenging their mother’s horrible death. It was a good day, a fun day and one Dean would remember for the rest of his life.  
  
That was the second night it happened and Dean was wide awake.  
  
Sammy had fallen asleep on the couch sitting next to their dad and John had carried the boy into his own room and tucked him in. Sometime around 2:00 a.m., Sammy slipped under the covers next to Dean and snuggled into his favorite nook. They slept for almost two hours before Sammy started wiggling. Dean woke up instantly and held his breath. Part of him was terrified the same thing would happen again and part of him was literally dying for it to happen. He held Sammy close, stroking his back under his night shirt and listening to the pattern of his brother’s breathing.  
  
Faster and faster, heated pants on Dean’s neck, brush of hot lips, soft tip of the nuzzling nose. Dean’s cock twitched and he winced silently, wishing he wasn’t responding like that. Wishing he could just let Sammy be and not react to all his roiling sexual energy, just lie still and let nature do its thing.   
  
But he couldn’t. Dean’s own roiling sexual energy simply wouldn’t let him.  
  
He held Sammy close and pressed into him, flinching with guilt when his stiff cock touched Sammy’s hot belly, tingling, needing friction and wanting it from that spot alone. Sammy’s skin was on fire and so silky smooth. Dean held his breath, moved his hips just a little and shivered from the crushing blow of pleasure.  
  
Sammy sighed in his sleep, a little moan scratching out of his throat, vibrating against Dean’s neck and earlobe. Suddenly, his wriggling young body lurched forward, banging into Dean’s, and that was when Dean felt his brother’s cock against his belly. Just above his, hot balls touching the head of his own weeping erection. Dean’s breath shifted into panting and he pumped his hips, reeling from this whole new pantheon of arousal.   
  
And then Sammy came. He shuddered against Dean’s body and pushed his hips forward, squirting, squirting four times in succession then another time a second later. The fluid almost burned Dean’s skin as it splashed then dripped down into the sheet beneath them. Sammy trembled, panted, squirmed. His fingers curled around Dean’s shoulder and held on too tight, nails digging into flesh, and then letting go all together.   
  
Dean felt like his body had detonated into a spray of flesh and bone. He heard his blood rushing in his ears and felt himself shaking all over as the hardest, deepest orgasm of his young life tore through him like a hurricane. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately not to cry out. He clung to his brother as he rode out the brutal spasms, knowing he was going wake Sammy and not being able to help it. As his climax finally released its merciless hold on him, Dean’s head began to clear just enough to focus on his surroundings.  
  
To his utter amazement, Sammy was sleeping like a rock in his arms.   
  
Still panting, Dean eased his brother’s body down on the mattress and carefully, so carefully moved away from him. They were both drenched in creamy, musky smelling fluid and Dean couldn’t stop inhaling that delectable scent. He moved down on the bed just enough to get his head under the covers and then he breathed in as deeply as he could, filling his nose and mouth with the aroma of their combined ejaculate. He swallowed, tasted it in his mouth, swallowed again, licked his swollen lips. Wet, everything so very wet and salty-yeasty-sweet. He nuzzled Sammy’s hot belly and then his tongue was on that skin, so gently licking it over and over.  
  
He opened his mouth wide on the flesh above Sammy’s navel and licked, then kissed the skin. Sammy shifted in his sleep and his legs moved up and down, but then he was still. Dean waited, listening for that telltale even breathing, then he ran his tongue down further, under the navel and back up around. Fine hairs on Sammy’s belly tickled his tongue and the creamy fluids reaching his taste buds reminded him of both biscuits and cantaloupe. Dean’s eyes were closed but his every other sense was alive and pulsing. His heartbeat was like thunder in his ears.  
  
Sammy moved again and his left leg came forward under the blankets, hooking over Dean’s right shoulder. For a moment he was pinned and he froze, waiting to see if his brother would move again. Then Sammy sighed deeply, relaxed and remained still.   
  
Dean reached up with his right hand and stroked his brother’s thigh through the thin cotton of his pajamas. He did this very softly so as not to wake him and then he gently, gently moved that leg down and off his shoulder. Taking a deep savoring breath of his brother’s scent, Dean started to inch back up to the safety and sanity of the pillows. But suddenly Sammy dropped his hand heavily on top of Dean’s head, stopping him where he was. Dean waited, wondering if his brother was awake, but then he realized Sammy’s respiration was just as even as before. Deep slow breaths, in and out. In the next moment, Sammy’s hand slipped lazily over Dean’s hair and landed with a soft plop on the mattress.   
  
Again, he started to inch his way back up to the pillows and he would have made it if he hadn’t stopped to kiss the skin exposed on Sammy’s chest by his open night shirt. As soon a his lips made contact with that scrumptious skin again, Dean’s erection returned like a vengeful spirit. His body lit up with arousal, making him dizzy from the sudden rush. It felt like being injected with adrenalin, immediate, overwhelming, shocking. He felt powerless against it and Dean hated that. Sammy was his baby brother. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. And yet, he also knew he did not have enough control to win this battle.  
  
With his hand on Sammy’s lower back, Dean turned him gently until he was flat on the mattress. Sammy’s legs relaxed, his thighs parted just a bit and he sighed in his sleep. Dean watched his face for a long, tense moment, all the while swallowing back the saliva accumulating in his mouth. The scent of Sammy’s body was so intoxicating, Dean felt hungry and lightheaded. He’d never wanted anything as much as he wanted to taste his brother’s flesh right at that moment. His guts ached with guilt but he had no choice but to surrendered to that powerful instinct.  
  
He didn’t think, didn’t plan, he just closed his eyes and lowered his head. First, he brushed his nose over Sammy’s silky belly above and below the navel and then he opened his mouth, letting his tongue out to seek its prize. He licked belly flesh, then touched fine, silky pubic hair and then he found it. Dean held his breath as Sammy’s eager cock slipped effortless into his mouth, growing and heating up on contact. Dean’s heart was so loud in his chest, he thought it might wake his brother. If not the sound of it, then the hard pound of it against the mattress under them.   
  
His mouth was so wet he lost some of his saliva out the corners of his lips as he closed them around that hot, twitching delicacy. Sammy’s cock was already flowing, leaking salty pre-come and throbbing with urgency. Dean swallowed and his tongue lapped over that impossibly satiny flesh, feeling the tight veins and ridges. The skin was hot and almost papery over the steel beneath it. His body trembled and he pressed his itching cock into the mattress and then he sucked very gently. Once, twice, three times and then his greedy mouth was flooded with heat that tasted tangy and sugary and earthy like the nectar of a peach.   
  
He came hard swallowing everything that went into his mouth, breathing in and out, smelling, tasting, reeling. Tiny flecks of color flashed in the darkness behind his eyelids. Yes, he was sure he’d pass out from all this. That, or he’d be struck down by God in the next second. Even as his body writhed with blistering pleasure, Dean felt removed from the scene—outside of it somehow, watching. He could see himself clearly crouched under the covers performing this sacrilege in that sheltered darkness. He was the very definition of carnal perversion and he loathed himself.  
  
In the next instant, he was out of bed and bolting down the hall to the bathroom. He got the door closed and then he dropped hard to his knees in front of the toilet. In the dark, cool room, he waited for the retching to being, knowing it had to come. Dean hated throwing up. It scared the shit out of him. But he welcomed the concept then, hoping the evacuation of the evidence would somehow cleanse him of the deed. His cheeks tingled and he swallowed repeatedly, his belly tightened and he leaned forward, ready, almost grateful.  
  
But nothing came up.  
  
He could taste Sammy’s sweet seed in his mouth, still delicious, addictive. He swallowed and willed himself to vomit, but got nothing. He tried so hard, he trembled from the effort, his knuckles going white on the rim of the toilet. He coughed a few times hoping that would help, but it didn’t. Finally, he sighed and crumpled down on the floor, drawing his legs up to his chest. He wrapped his arms around them, put his head on his knees and started to cry.  
  
The sobs felt like an earthquake, hitching in his throat and making his head hurt. He tried to be quiet but couldn’t and after a few moments, he didn’t care. The knock came softly a little while later and then his father’s voice followed, a gentle, concerned whisper through the door.  
  
“Dean?” The door snicked and opened and John Winchester leaned into the dark bathroom. “Dean, are you okay?”  
  
He sniffed and raised his head so he could answer. “Yeah, I’m fine. I thought I was gonna puke, but I didn’t.”  
  
“Can I turn on the light?”  
  
“Please don’t, Dad.”  
  
John paused. “Okay. Can I come in?”  
  
“Yeah,” the response was more breath than voice.  
  
Dean’s father came into the dark little room and sat down on the floor. He wore sweats and a faded USMC t-shirt—his version of pajamas. John’s knees popped as he folded them to sit Indian-style across from his son. He reached forward and brushed at Dean’s cheek, wiping the tears away with his thumb. His hand lingered, cradling Dean’s head.  
  
“What happened here?”  
  
“I thought I was gonna puke,” he said again.  
  
“And that made you cry like this?”  
  
“I hate throwing up, Dad.”  
  
“But you didn’t.”  
  
“I know, but I got freaked anyway.” Dean let his head rest fully in the cup of his father’s hand, wishing he’d stop with the questions.   
  
“Did you get a bad taco?” John asked.  
  
“Somethin’.”  
  
“Want some Pepto?”  
  
Dean grimaced. “God, no. I’ll definitely barf that up.”  
  
John smiled a little sadly and Dean could tell his dad didn’t know what to do. Obviously something was very wrong but it was impossible to guess what. At least Dean prayed it was impossible to guess.  
  
“How about some water?” his father said.  
  
Dean shook his head and stretched his legs out on the floor. He reached up in the darkness, found the roll of toilet paper and tore off a few sheets so he could blow his nose. When his hands came up to his face, he smelled Sammy all over them and it was a rough struggle not to cry again.  
  
John sat where he was and waited, his gaze never leaving his oldest son’s face. “Are you sure this is all about being afraid to puke?”  
  
Dean sniffed, tossed the soiled toilet paper into the little trash can behind the toilet, then took a deep breath. “Yeah, that’s all. I think I’m okay now, though. I feel better.”  
  
“Uh huh,” John said and his speculative tone made Dean look at him. “You look terrified, son. Like you saw a ghost or something.”  
  
Sammy appeared in the doorway then, pajamas askew but on properly. He rubbed his eyes and walked over to John, practically falling into his father’s lap. John caught him, lifted him, then parked his youngest’s butt on his left thigh.  
  
“What’s the matter?” Sammy said sleepily.  
  
“I think we’re good now,” John told him. “Your brother’s got a bad tummy.”  
  
Sammy looked at Dean in the low light. “You okay?”  
  
“I think. Sorry I woke you up.” Dean tried a smile but failed. The mere sight of his little brother made him want to start screaming at the top of his lungs and never stop. Even if he screamed for the rest of his life, he didn’t think it would make him feel any better about what he’d done. A tear escaped on that thought and tracked down his cheek.  
  
Sammy was watching him, as usual, and even though it was dark in the room, he spotted that single tear. “You’re crying, Dean.”  
  
He sighed, wiped the tear away, then he forced himself to stand up. “I’m okay,” he said. And then he attempted to behave normally and tripped his fingers through the ends of Sammy’s hair as he passed. “You coming back in with me?” he asked, cringing slightly, hoping his brother would say no.  
  
John looked up at his oldest. “Why don’t I put him in his own bed? You go lie down.”  
  
Sammy groaned in protest and John kissed his forehead. “Your brother doesn’t feel well.”  
  
“Oh, all right,” the littlest Winchester conceded.  
  
Dean nodded, started for his room. “Okay. Good night.”  
  
“Holler if you need anything,” John said.  
  
“I will.” Dean closed his door and leaned against it, listening to his father carry his brother into his own room. John murmured to Sammy, using soft tones like a lullaby, and a few minutes later all was quiet again.  
  
Dean looked at his bed and wanted to be in it, but he couldn’t move. He stood there leaning against the door for almost ten minutes trying to figure out what to do. Finally, he knew.  
  
He went to the bed and proceeded to strip it down to the mattress pad. He wadded the damp, yummy smelling sheets into a tight ball and stuffed them in the hamper in his closet. Then he grabbed his pillows and the blankets and crawled back on the bed, wrapping himself up like a cocoon.   
  
He laid there awake and motionless until the sun came up.  
  
  
***  
  
Sam was on his third beer and Dean still nursed his first. They sat on the bed in their motel room surrounded by Sam’s clothes, the clean ones now folded and packed and the laundry in a neat pile by his bag. Now that he’d finished his tale, Dean sat forward and tilted his beer to his perfect lips, draining it easily in a few gulps.   
  
“I think I’m ready for Jim,” he said, crossing the room to the grocery bag. He dug in it and found the bottle of bourbon, twisting off the cap as he returned to the bed.   
  
“Dude, you’re torturing yourself,” Sam said softly. “I hate that. It’s not necessary. Wasn’t then, isn’t now. _Totally_ isn’t now.”  
  
Dean flopped back into his position on the bed. Bringing the bottle to his lips, he took a deep swallow, wincing from the sudden burn. “After that, there were about a million wet dreams when you were sleeping with me. I swear to god, I’d wake up and we’d both be soaked. Drove me nuts, Sammy. I wanted you so bad. But I didn’t touch you again until your french kissing plan—until it was all your idea.”  
  
Sam shrugged. “It wouldn’t have mattered if you had. Let’s remember, I was the kid stealing my big brother’s dirty underwear so I could chew on them while I beat off. That same kid wanted everything you wanted—at the same damn time.” They stared at each other, Sam’s brow lifted in earnest. “Why do you keep missing that vital piece of information, dude? This wasn’t your fault. We were goin’ there no matter what.”  
  
“It’s not that,” Dean said, his voice rougher than usual from talking so much.   
  
“What, then?”  
  
Taking another deep sip of bourbon, Dean frowned. “You were my responsibility, Sammy. My baby brother—a ten-year-old child. I took advantage of you when you were sleeping. Nothing anyone says is ever gonna make that right.” He picked at the label on the bottle pensively. “That’s why I never told you. I always thought . . . if you knew . . . you’d think . . .”  
  
“What, that you were a monster?” Sam said softly. He shook his head, reached forward and took Dean’s hand, squeezing it with his long fingers. “Dean, you weren’t. You said it yourself, you felt like you couldn’t control it. And I remember you at fourteen.” He smirked. “You were a walking hard-on. Everything gave you wood. How could you possibly expect yourself to resist what was on offer in your own bed that night?” He squeezed his brother’s hand again. “The only thing that bothers me about knowing that happened is that I freakin’ slept through it and missed it.”  
  
Dean looked at him, round green eyes rimmed red with emotion. He squeezed Sam’s hand in return but said nothing.  
  
“Let it go, Dean,” Sam urged. “You’re killin’ yourself over something that doesn’t exist. In fact, it never existed.”  
  
Dean tugged on his brother’s hand and kept tugging until Sam tipped forward and sprawled out beside him on the bed, nearly spilling his half full beer all over Dean’s chest. They giggled and Sam settled beside Dean, resting his head on his shoulder. For a long time, they just looked at each other, green on green, brother to brother.   
  
“I want to tell you something,” Sam said. “And I want you to really hear me.”  
  
Dean frowned, but nodded. His fingers slipped home into the curls behind Sam’s neck.   
  
“When we were kids,” Sam whispered. “I worshipped you.”  
  
“What, you’re saying you don’t now?” Dean quipped but Sam shook his head.  
  
“Don’t joke. I need you to be serious for a minute.”  
  
Sighing, Dean nodded his agreement and sat quietly, keen, sparkling eyes attentive on his brother’s face.  
  
“I get that you need to be a hero, but do that for the people out there that we can help. I don’t need that from you anymore.” Sam’s eyes narrowed slightly because that wasn’t quite the truth, but it would have to do for now. He went on in a breathy whisper. “I need you to be my brother and watch my back. I need you to be my lover and I need to be yours—no guilt, no bullshit, no psycho-baggage from our jacked up childhood.” He took a steadying breath because he could feel his throat tightening. “And I need you to be my friend, man. That’s all. Okay?” He just let his eyes well up because he couldn’t help it and he prepared himself to be ripped on for being such a big girl.  
  
To his surprise, Dean’s eyes welled up, too, and a few heavy tears spilled over his freckled cheeks. But that smirk was right underneath the brief vulnerability. “That was an _awful_ lot o’ mush in one place, Sammy. I think you’ve had enough to drink.”   
  
Sam laughed through his tears and it felt great. It felt honest, intimate, precious and familiar, like something far away and deep they both used to own. Dean brushed away the tears on his cheeks and they smiled at each other. Sam realized then that the moment felt like being home. The moment felt just like Flagstaff.  
  
  
The end (for now)


End file.
